


Celestial Collision

by Julivor



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alfred Being an Idiot, America & Alfred (Hetalia), Brotherly Bonding, Cardverse, Galactic Traveling, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Nationverse, Protective Arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 03:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10654257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julivor/pseuds/Julivor
Summary: The daily humdrum of America's life is viciously uprooted when a lost traveler light years away quite literally crash lands in his bedroom. For all intents and purposes, magic doesn't exist. There are rules, alright. Yet the living proof's floating above his sofa, snorkeling cereal and damning his wallet.Alfred wants to go home, but kinda doesn't, because returning even a semblance of happiness back to America is worth far worth than ruling as supreme monarch.Cardtalia x Nationverse, UKUS





	Celestial Collision

America knows rocket science, the application of nuclear isotopes, the weight of a gun. He's amassed nearly half a millennium’s worth of sight, smell, sound and taste. He's fallen off the Grand Canyon, hiked to the peak of Mr. Everest, twice, because he'd gone and forgotten important documents issued by The Pentagon at 8848 metres worth of blistering cold weather.

He's been to the moon. He's died, kicked the bucket, buried six-feet under, for what has amounted to a lifetime's worth and then some, his body resembling swiz-cheese from German bullets, or the chilled inflation of drowning in North Atlantic waters in 1912.

He's aggregated the experience of a thousand men, and a thousand more after, in the expanse of a single century. And though he may not know the difference between what humanity can achieve, and what it will destroy (because he's destroyed many things, time and time again. Pulled the trigger not because he didn't have a choice – there was always a choice – but because he could), he does know love and pain come hand-in-hand.

So when he moves to grab a rather presumptuous newspaper, headline reading _America's Infrastructure: Are We Doomed to Repeat the Past_ , in bold courier – now, doesn't that just bring him back to the Industrial era – he knocks his waist against the table. 

He was always a big boy, bigger than Canada, strutting in farcical big boy bloomers, and now he's a big man wearing a big Armani tuxedo with sweat pants because he hasn't done the laundry since Monday. The pure audacity of his abhorrent choice of attire, of Armani with _sweat pants_ , would have poor North Italy crying tears of blood, and America can't handle seeing small men cry. Some part of him dies inside. It's like sitting in front of rancid cable news and watching Criminal Minds: Beyond Borders on loop.

Would it be an abuse of power if he took a few golden bullion from Fort Knox and used it to commission, say, a time travel machine, from shady, underground ex-NASA practitioners? Just so he could, you know, jump back three days from today and slap himself silly for breaking the washing machine. Quite frankly, he speculated, it wouldn't be the most puerile of decisions made using America's money.

The vase China gave as a Christmas gift, something from the time before Jesus, he's sure, topples over and shatters into a zillion pieces because some Higher Power in the tippity-top of his pantheon ladder network hates him.

“Tony,” he screams, “get the vacuum.” He side-steps the accident, gently kicking the larger stray pieces into a pile in the middle. He takes the newspaper, useless thing anyway, he knew better than any useless drivel journalists could fabricate for a quick buck, and uses it as a make-shift glove to pick up the pieces and toss them into the trashcan.

“Tony,” he repeats, “Tony, I need the vacuum.”

By the time he's finished cleaning up the large portion of itty-bitty ceramic pieces, for what could possibly be worth hundreds of American money, Tony's still missing. No, really, must America do everything himself? He can't even go five minutes into a Zelda session without Tony threatening to dissect the neighbour's teacup Yorkshire for spare parts. So, obviously, when he needs the little critter for a helping hand, Tony’s vanished. Played Houdini.

“Tony where are you?” America checks the living room first, then the kitchen. He's living in a two bedroom apartment in New York. Space is tight.

Yes, hello, my name's America and I'm calling to report a missing person. Five feet tall, bulbous brain, kind of like an inflated balloon, oh, and gray. Very gray.

He checks the guest bedroom but their boisterous, one-sided game of Hide-and-Seek continues.

“Tony, there better be an alien god out there because if I find you in the air-ducts so help me I'm ringing Area 51 and dissecting your shiny grey as-” from his bedroom, there's a sudden bang.

Oh. Great. Tony was in his _closet_.

It takes America five seconds flat to rip apart the closet doors and ask, nay, demand, for Tony to stop hoarding his electronics. This is getting ridiculous. Bagels are off the breakfast menu because the toaster's gone, his hair-dryer had nearly fallen into the bathtub from one of the vents, and now he can't even vacuum.

Jesus, if only the reporters had dug from this. Troubles for America, in America: How can we expect change when our Nation is invalid.

Even his television's missing fifty channels, though that may be a misgiving on his part. Something something, overdue fees.

He doesn't let the surprise show on his face when all he sees is a closet full of empty clothes-hangers and, laid innocuously next to his hamper, a heavy-duty, metal and spit and cold steel typewriter. An honest to god typewriter. He hasn't seen this since, well, since forever.

His pinkie twitches reflexively. They typewrite he was fond of using way back when had been one of the earlier models with heavy keys, sometimes straining his fingers after pulling all nighters. But the worst would be pulling out a finished document and noticing the absolute clusterfuck that was his spelling. The white house office director railing murder outside his font door, the biweekly whiteout supplies. Wonderful times.

The best century wasn't the 18th or the 20th. But the 21st. No more impending deadlines, or District Attorney's fucking him over. Now he can misspell a word and have auto-correct do the fixing for him. Gee whiz, Jenkins, the times we're living in.

Now, with this handy-dandy writing machine, he can send letters back to his triceratops aunt for milk and cookies on Sunday.

“Jesus, what the hell am I gonna do with this.” The fossil must have weighed over twenty kilograms, but America picks it up effortlessly. He begins to inspect the keys. All are faded, etching indications nearly invisible altogether. Turning it over, America finds the production date, signed behind the paper table, and feels his heart break into teeny tiny pieces much like China's vase.

_| Property of Kirkland, A.  
_

_| 1826._

Well, doesn't that put a lot of things into perspective. Of course this couldn't belong to him, to America, the King of Electronics. This wouldn't do, not one bit. There's the latest iPhone model in his right pocket, a 3DS XL in his left. He's got an important image to maintain.

Perhaps he would pay banal ol' England a visit, an ancient memento under his arms, with a forgotten gift from the past. Or, perhaps, he could call Seal 7 and go trigger happy. Perhaps he'd take the family hotrod Thunderer, North American P-51D Mustang of course, for a whirl around the culd-de-sac and drop it at a 6000 altitude.

Maybe he'd nuke it.

There are compelling parts of him seduced by the allure of hopping across the pond. But his more rational mindset forces him to place the antiquated model in one of those incredibly pompous Hallmark gift packages France periodically sent.

 _To England_ , he writes. _You left this behin_ d.

Voila. Peace de' resistance. Couldn't have said it any better himself, because, really, he can't say anything at all. He hasn't talked to England outside the office in years. He's lost his best-friend, his mentor, his father-figure, ~~his first and only love~~ in one fell swoop. Sometimes he can't stomach sitting next to him during meetings, feeling the equivalent of his heart ripping in two, and other times he’s lying down with a bundle of letter, addressed to a man at the centre of his world, unsent and tear-stained.

 

~::~

 

“Sir, we've arrived.” Jeremy hits the brakes, the SUV rolling to a stop in front of the office building. America stops ticking over papers, stacks held precariously over his laps, coffee sloshing dangerously close to an amendment due next week by the Supreme Court. He hasn't seen the light of day in weeks. His daily agenda’s a check box list of being herded left and right by government officers, his hands working a flurry for signatures and formal appeals. “Sir, we've arrived,” Jeremy reiterates.

America looks up – finally looks up – from his hellish nightmares that's since invaded his dreams in paper cutting glory, and feels the strains in his neck snap and pop in cathartic pleasure. “Oh, right, the meeting.” He massages the nape of his neck, wringing out whatever stress he could afford. Each time a delightful pop rings out, he hums a pleasant tune.

“Just kill me now,” he moans. Taking a sip of espresso, he wipes any stray droplets off the documents then quickly packs it up and shoves it into his briefcase. “A merciful death if I've ever seen one.” He hasn't been to a G8 meeting in three years. Partly because he's a very busy nation with very important things to do, like people to scream at, and paperwork to scream over.

“The meeting doesn’t start for another thirty minutes. Do you want to stay inside and rest, Sir?” Jerry adjusts the rear-view mirror, capturing America’s gaze with worried eyes.

He shakes his head. “Unfortunately, I left the blanket at home, and the eye-mask in Kelly’s underwear drawer. Fun night. Shoud’ve been there.” He adjusts his tie slightly to the right. There, perfect. “Don’t worry. I’ve been to hundreds of these meetings. By the second hour, no one cares if you’re half-dead as long as you sign shit afterward. See you at twelve, buddy.”

America slips out the SUV, waving goodbye to Jerry. He takes three steps into the building and swerves to the left, to the Smoke Room. 

Jesus, his nerves were getting the better of him, weren’t they? You’d think after centuries of chasing his own tail he’d have a better grip of himself. Yeah, right.

An exotic cigarette from Spain he’s 99.9% sure contains illegal substances in over 27 states is lit, and America exhales a plume of cool nicotine. The relief is palpable.

Every excuse in his handy-dandy stratagem of evading responsibilities had been thrown at the Superintendents in the bureaucratic wing, but America had been unable to sleazily dodge the meeting. Not if it was held here in New York.

But, really, he isn’t fooling anyone. 

He just really, really doesn’t want to see England.

“America, is that you?”

He flinches when the door is abruptly opened. Quickly snuffing his cigarette under his foot, he fixes his brightest, million-watt, billboard American toothpaste smile.

“Saw you on the way inside.” Canada's head pops in, friendly smile plastered. Slowly the rest of his body slips in and takes the seat next to America. America’s smile slips for just a moment. He’d pegged being alone for a few more minutes. “Smoking, eh.”

“No,” America interjects. “I wasn’t.”

Canada fixes him an incredulous look. “Really? So you’re just sulking here, in the Smoke Room, not smoking?”

America bites the inside of his cheeks. “Just one until you came in here,” he admits.

“Still can’t handle smoking around others after all this time, huh,” Canada’s tone is indifferent, and he takes out a cigarette of his own. “Ah, geez.” He rifles through his pockets, turning them inside out, then tucking them back in. “Light me.”

“I don’t like people thinking I’m a lightweight with the brands I use.” America takes his zippo out and leans closer, lighting Canada’s cigarette. For a brief moment, he gets the spark of remembrance.

_Late night smoking. Open skies. Handcuffed and P.O.Ws._

Inhaling, Canada relishes the sensation from the way he closes his eyes in bliss. “Your beer’s water and piss,” he exhales, a plume of smoke mingling with his words. “Everyone thinks you’re a lightweight.”

Now, wasn’t he just a darling. “Piss and water? You said you loved Bud Light.” America tucks the zippo back into his breast-pocket, the least bit amused.

“I remember no such thing. And if I did, it was at gun-point.”

“Ha ha ha,” America grimaces. He stares at a stain on the wall reminiscent to a blood stain, or juice, or cum. Pick any, after one-hundred years in the business, America’s spilled all three in buildings all over the world. Which reminds him, the small stain below the carpet under the President’s chair in the Oval Office? Yeah, was definitely his j-

“I’m kind of surprised you decided to host the G8 here.” Canada fishes another cigarette from its packet. “I’d expected you to have found a way to get yourself out of it. Do me a solid and light this one, please.”

America sharply tosses him the lighter. “Here, do it yourself. And I had absolutely every intentions of skipping this week, but the bureau made it so I couldn’t. Imagine my surprise.”

Canada smirks. “Steve’s lovely, isn’t he.”

“If you find dirty sneaky skunks lovely, then sure.” America blanches from the pungency of the smoke. “Alright, I’m going now. The smell’s disgusting.” He picks up his briefcase and moves past Canada, but jerks back when his hand is grabbed tightly.

Fixing him a resolute stare, Canada makes an unpleasant face. “Are you sure you’ll be fine?”

America pretends he doesn’t hear the tinge of hesitancy, or the worried trepidation, and snatches his hand back roughly. “I’m fine, Canada. Never better. A little hungry, actually.” A sting of guilt shoots down his spine when Canada’s face falls, like he doesn’t believe him at all. “C’mon, don’t give me that face. How ‘bout we go out for lunch later, my treat.”

“You can’t solve everything by throwing money at it,” Canada calls, just as he’s about to leave the room.

“A bribe for the feds and a promotion for the secretary. Everything’s solved with money in America.” He laughs, lets the words run loose and loop over his tongue, over and over again, because it’s true. Nothing he’s said has been false, for better or worse. The city of dreams.

Everyone he passes takes one look at him, then rightfully steps back, parting a path for him in the marble stone building. He dabs at the sweat on his forehead. He doesn't need a mirror to see his face is taking on a wretched expression. Pinching his nose, America turns his lips upwards for a pleasant effect. The elevator doors part and everyone inside nimbly streams out in a quick wave, heads tucked down and briefcases pulled a little closer. Perfect.

An image of Steve with his tight suit and frown scrawled across his face in his Washington home appears, turning in his swivel chair, cross-legged, and, “Once again, America, once again,” playing on his lips. Ugh. What a schmuck.

Steve could suck his own dick. America's hankering to just skid across the flooring; Oxford's vexatiously squeaking. He'd call for the Chevrolete Covette, tip the valet a hundred and fifty, toss his briefcase to the wind and drive around Nevada with Molossia, crashing through cactus and the occasional ruined STOP signs. Maybe play strip poker in Las Vegas with a couple of hedonistic millennials. 

He's far too engrossed in his thoughts to notice he's still pressed over the Door Open button. He lets his fingers linger, but his expression must still be dour, because a woman carrying a stack of boxes clearly on the verge of tipping over glances in his direction then side-steps to the stairs. He's three seconds from helping her up, old habits die hard see, when he hears someone shout, “Hold the lift.”

His fingers fly to the Door Close button and he jabs it unrelentingly, willing the button to merge with the panel, because England's speed-walking and shit, just walk a bit slower, just one second more, and he's home free-

“America, I know you heard me,” England says, breathlessly diving into the elevator. “It's rude to ignore people.” He says it in such a matter of fact fashion, as though he's reprimanding a child, that America can just see the umbrella he keeps under his arms to ride the British winds to the next truant child.

“I was in a hurry,” he says calmly. Coolly. America uses the reflection of the gold panel to fix his stringent expression, schooling it to a small if not awkward smile.

England does a small hum. “It's still 10.20. I wouldn't have expected you to arrive for another half hour, stampeding through the meeting doors sweaty and distraught as you usually are.”

Sharply, America bites on his tongue. That hit quite a bit too close to home. “Well I know how mad you get, so I thought maybe today I'd come earlier. For you.” England obviously makes an attempt to refrain from rolling his eyes from the way he crinkles his eyebrows.

“By all means, it's not an unpleasant surprise,” England finally says, his voice falling soft. He takes a couple of steps back, leaning on the wall. America stays rooted in place, refraining from looking at England's reflection. “It's been a while, hasn't it.”

Three years, nine months and four weeks. But hey, who's counting. “Really? Feels like yesterday,” America snorts.

11th, 12th, 13th. 31 more floors to go.

“To you, perhaps. But it was a different story for me.” England leaves it at that, all mysterious and foreboding. Conveying words to America without saying them. He's always been so good at it. Making him feel like a goddamn idiot, leaving the same residual feeling of being lost from when he was a child. But he isn't a child anymore. He's all grown-up, with a record to prove it, but just one sentence. One phrase, and he's back to being three feet tall and watching England wave goodbye by the port-side.

19th. The doors part open, and America stands a bit taller, smiles the same million watt smile. He'll talk to just about anyone by now. Let England keep his cryptic mystery words of mystery to himself. A man no older than his twenties looks up from his Rolex and takes a step in with a smile of his own, when his eyes go alarmingly wide. “Err, I'll take the stairs," he coughs.

America feels himself practically deflate. He whips around to England, biting his cheek. “Oh please, America,” England quips. “The air's positively electric.”

“That wouldn't be my fault,” he hisses. England doesn't deign him a reply.

26th. 29th. 31st.

He sucks in a deep breath, then exhales. Might as well start now. Better late than never, yeah. “I have,” his mouth has gone surprisingly dry, so he wets his lips, Adam's apple visibly bobbing. Being alone with Engand after so long in closed quarters has made him vulnerable. There's a rumbling in the pit of his stomach, and a cacophonous ringing in his ear. “I have something of yours at home,” he releases in one breath.

From the corner of his eyes, England visibly perks up. “Excuse me?” he asks.

“I said,” America's voice hitches by the end, “that I have something of yours.” He tightens his grip on the suitcase handle. “It's a typewriter,” he starts. Keep it civil, ol’ mate. You can do it, he incites, “I have one of your old typewriters at home. You must have left it way back, and somehow it’s smuggled itself into the moving truck. Well, either way, you should get it back or Tony’ll take it for himself.”

"You're still living with... it?"

America stifles a crooked chuckle. "Yeap. He's a good roommate."

He hears England hum the same tune again. Dissecting his words character by character. “Is that so? Well, I’m free after the meeting. Is it… what model is it?”

“World War II,” America says reflexively. The words tumble out clumsily, and when he blinks, in the millisecond of silence, he hears panting and moaning and gasping and “yes England there, yes oh there,” in a tent on the outskirts of a burning London, and opens his eyes, stupefied. He bites down on his tongue hard. Goddamit it, America. God-fucking-damnit. Never World War II, not ever. “S-Somewhere along there, I think. Maybe a bit later. You know me, never good with dates,” he laughs.

The closed interior of the elevator finally starting to creep on his skin. He's tempted to take a look at England, to see whether or not he was just as bothered as America.

Thankfully, England doesn’t pick out his stupor with his dainty, surgical fingers and incision lips. “A World War II model,” he says wistfully. America wonders if he’s remembering the Blitz burning his city to the ground, the swarm of German planes, or, if, he sees himself fucking America into the ground.

That last thought is dangerous. No go territory, Area 51 level prohibited. It’s a whole can of worms he isn’t ready to open up, if ever.

“Treat it carefully America. It could very well be an antique, one of the firsts of its kind.” Maybe China’s broken vase, sitting in pieces in his trashcan, was worth twice as much. Then he remembers the cheap Made in China American pens he’d been given the last meeting, and rids the thought. “I’ll hop on over later to pick it up.”

America nearly chokes on his spit. “Nah, man. You don’t have to,” he grinds his teeth. He can’t stand seeing England inside of the office. Outside, together, like the old days? Yeah, just blow his brains out right now and get it over with before he goes and does something stupid. Like, again. “I’ll have it sent to your hotel room. Hilton, right? Good choice, stay classy.”

“America, it would be less of a hassle if I simply went over and took it from you. I wouldn't have to worry about anyone's incompetence save your own. We can have lunch during.” He can hear England drum his fingers along the lift's –elevator, dammit. In America, do American – wooden bar.

“No can do, I'm bringing Canada out with me,” he deflects. Absolutely not. He's not letting England anywhere near his apartment complex. Not his room, not the lobby, not even the outdoors parking. He could stand the street across next to the traffic light with a pair of binoculars, looking for all the world a sinister stalker.

“Perfect. I'll join you both.”

America whips behind to reject England vehemently, because the idea is outrageous, absolutely reprehensible, that he can believe he's allowed to forcefully intervene in America's day to day routine, in his daily life. _Listen here, England_ , he wants to screech, to bellow, allow the words to ring across his vocal chords.

But he doesn't.

He faces England, who stares at him through lidded eyes, hiding the intensity he doesn't want to voice at America. _We need to talk_ , flays across his face. America would be lying if he didn't admit to the nostalgia of seeing England with the same cool reservation, the bits of a frown tracing the expanse of his prim features. It's a sight he's only seen a handful of times, reserved for when he's regally Fucked Up. The last time was… well. The last time was a long time ago. Best to leave the skeleton in the closet, the worst of memories hidden with a lock and swallowed key.

“Alright,” he says slowly. A part of him feels as though it's admitted defeat.

As luck would have it, the doors rings open, 44th floor flashing across the upper screen. America lets England depart first and in a childish burst of annoyance, jabs the altruistic Close button one more time, feeling it mesh into the panel, and slips out. He'll ask Angela to pay for it later. Useless thing anyway. Waste of tax payer money.

“I won't settle for a fast-food joint,” England calls, waiting for America to fall into step.

Childishly, he lets his feet drag on the floor. In a way, Steve couldn't complain about something he had no idea of. Not if England told. But he wouldn't, would he? Actually, looking back, Jerry was probably born with an America-radar installed where his sixth sense should have settled over. Fated from birth to dog at his heels, forever asking for last week's paperwork. Seemingly blinks yellow when America makes someone unhappy, unholy crimson when he's done messed up.

America learns from his mistakes, especially his blunders, and says, “We can meet at Central Park instead, all right,” with grit and steel and no further compromises. He’s meeting halfway already. He isn’t letting England anywhere near the New York complex. Not when he’ll spend the rest of the time seeing himself get fingered by England while England sits on his couch. Or watching himself get fucked over the kitchen counter whenever he needs to get a glass of water.

England’s frown leafs back to its placid look. “Alright then.”

They stop in front of the meeting door. He feels England tense up, and when England sneaks a glance at him, he knows his back is just a bit straighter. It's an instinctual action by now.

“After you,” England holds the door open for him. Inside, America can see China and Russia opposite each other in their respective seats. He takes another gulp. Pretends not see the way England watches his Adam's apple bop, and steps inside.

He's learned a long time ago that the worst of war had never been on the battlefield, but instead in a fastidious, closed office building.

 

~::~

 

| _Hey America_ _I heard we're going to Central Park_  
Sent, 12.08 

| _I want pizza_

Sent, 12.16

| _Also England's joining?? Should I be worried?_

Sent, 12.26

| _btw I took smthn from the apartment ask tony he’ll uh tell u_

Sent, 13.02

| _I know ure reading this_  
Sent, 13.05

In the crevices of boredom, America flits through his messages. He crams the doughnut in one go, letting the little bits of multi-coloured sprinkle decorate the sides of his cheeks. He should be meeting England in a bench in Central Park right about now, maybe the one that overlooked the pond, for aesthetic reasons. But he isn’t. Instead America’s on the 29th floor of his apartment complex, very much in need of a change of attire. There’s sweat pooling in his back and under his arms and in places he needs to wash his hands afterward.

The meeting had been a total train-wreck. One, two, three, straight off a bombed overhead bridge by a cackling nefarious 2D villain and his infinite supply of TNT.

Sometime during the meeting, somewhere in the middle of Japan’s remark over China’s South-China Sea debacle, the focus of the attention had shifted to him. China had remarked over his increasing aggression of Chinese antagonism. Obviously, because he's America, and was unquestionably ingrained in his own moral conduct, his responses were... less than stellar, and China had proclaimed diplomatic discrimination and partisanship.

Evidently this has riled him up. Then England, sweet, _sweet_ England, decided he needed a go at America’s policies, and some strange chain effect had spun out of control with France and Germany dog-piling him as well.

Insults were thrown, threats more so. Surprisingly, Russia had intervened, citing the strengthening of diplomatic ties between the Russian Federation and The United States of America. Which certainly, because when did anything ever go his way, prompted Japan to bring up the Kuril Island controversy.

A hundred years worth of political shenanigans and he still feels like he’s fresh out the Revolution with neither a hair nor head here, trying to make a mark with his own spit and blood; tired, weary and angry and spiteful.

But by tomorrow it’ll all be water under the bridge. Today’s enemies are tomorrow’s friends, yeah.

Sometimes tomorrow just couldn’t come quick enough, though. Like, take right now, for example. He should be on his way there right this very moment, but the Dunkin’ Donut stand had been too good to pass up. Verily, America had weighed the pros and cons immeasurably. Doughnut, or England? Gee, the answer was so very simple.

If he could make it through today, he’d be a free man tomorrow.

America unlocks the front door, switching on the hallway lights on his way in. “Tony, I bought doughnuts. The strawberry fillings are mine, so hands off, bub.” He sets the box of confectioneries down along with his keys.

From the kitchen, there’s a sharp clatter.

“Canada, you still here?” he calls.

When he receives no answer, America inches forward. “Canada?” he repeats, more steady. He knows Canada would have replied by now, so, logically, he could chalk the sound to Tony. “Tony,” he calls, a tad bit softer.

Briefly he places a hand on his hip, the sheen of a Colt Revolver stuck to his belt. He doesn't want to jump to conclusions and assume a wayward thief's sashayed into his home, with the intent to bite off more than they could chew. He wouldn’t need his gun if this was some ordinary civilian, armed or not. He’s lifted bison since he was a wee’ lass. He’d need to throw them off their legs, kick the gun away and pin them down.

He’s had years of experience. It’s like childplay.

The worst case scenario he could envision would be if another nation was intruding in his home. “Lithuania?” he vouches, just to be sure.

Again, there is no definite reply.

Russia’s the only nation strong enough to one up him, but what the others lack in size they made up for in their own experience. He’s not fast enough to catch either China or Japan, similar to other smaller, lithe nations. Nor does he know each and every martial arts there is in the melting pot of culture.

It’s a game of rock, paper, scissors, when you get down to it. Or, in layman’s terms, whomever was dumb enough to fall for the first feint.

He barges in, swinging the saloon doors open. Funny story, really. He'd pilfered them from an old Texas bar back in 1880. The circus had been in town, there was a rodeo show and a lot of rye passed from one mouth to another. The works. He recalled being drunk off his rockers from moonshine, nearly teetering off his horse with an old friend, and the next day he woke pissed with a beating in his noggen, but three bottles richer and pillaged woodwork strapped to his horse.

“Ain't nothin' to worry 'bout.” His pal slurred, a dame on both sides. “It's the present that counts.” Promptly, America had thought nothing of it, and to this day, the mystery's still going strong.

Fun times. Rest in peace Billy.

Slowly, America creeps in and sees… nothing. There’s no one inside.

One of his pans had fallen off the overhead rack, the metal bar in turn declining downward in a small angle. He walks to the wall extension and inspects it. One of the suspended hooks had detached itself from the ceiling, strange, but undoubtedly a normal occurrence. The building dated back to the 1940s and had only recently undergone a total refurbishment back in the 80s. He had specifically requested parts of his room remain untouched for aesthetic appeal.

Another striking sound reverberates, this time in the direction of his bedroom. America picks up the muddled sound of talking, words grouped together to form unintelligible sounds. Now he’s really annoyed. His bedroom is his private quarters. No one goes in there unless they’ve gotten his go to.

Silently, he stalks to the bedroom door. Within seconds, America kicks the door open and places himself in position, fist raised up in a standard boxing position. His gun still sits in its holster, ready, but it’s a last resort he doesn’t feel any inclination whatsoever to use.

“Tell me in ten words why you’re here,” America, ever one for wit. He expects a disgruntled man, ten feet tall, tatts and a hook for a hand, with a dwarf lackey with an eyepatch and a bag full of gold and his safe, but America doesn’t expect to see… _his_ own face stare back.

The trespasser raises his hands in alarm. Beside him is Tony, so at least America nailed the dwarf part, though loosely. “You said no one was coming,” he hissed to Tony, never taking his eyes away from America. An equally dumbfounded look dawns on his face, from the way his eyes widen into saucers, to his gaping mouth.

America can deal with many things. Kidnappers, spies, aliens, but no, he’s not into clones. This is some Twilight Zone level bullshit. Maybe McCartney was right, and somewhere, right now, some despot’s making copycat clones of him to usurp his position as a nation for Nefarious Plan #54.

He drops his fists, then takes out the revolver. “Tony, who is this?,” he asks, straining to keep his tone even.

Tony dismisses his question, turning back to his companion and resuming their “conversation”. America keeps the surprise off his face, replacing it with a deep frown. Are they… ignoring him? Him. America. The Great U.S.A. The man with a fucking gun.

“Terra. Earth. I'm sorry, but unless you're a bit more clear, I'm still lost.” America eyes them warily. Yes, hello, good morning, he’s right here. Don’t mind me, lemme' just blow your brain into little bits and pieces, he thinks bitingly.

Tony blinks.

“Well, that doesn’t answer anything at all.”

He takes a closer step, careful to hold the gun steady. The man could look like America all he wanted but there was no way he’d dress like _that_. Absolutely atrocious. Having his face, on that outfit, deserved a couple of bullet holes.

The man takes a step forward, raising his hands even higher. “Look, I'm not going to hurt you,” he says, his voice trembling slightly. “I can explain everything. Just please put that away.”

America snorts. “Yeah, sure.” He cocks the gun. “Ten seconds.”

“Wait, please.” The stranger waves his hands frantically. “Tony, Tony,” he says strenuously, “tell him!”

Tony looks between them, unfazed by the demanding atmosphere; ostensibly operating in an entire plane of his own. Waddling to America, not unlike the penguins he so adores to see, and probably probe, America theorises. He tugs on America’s sleeve and speaks without moving his lips, the words flitting through America’s mind and manifesting into a corporeal form. _Gun. Away._

“Now’s not the time, Tony,” America hisses. “There’s an America 2.0 right in front of me, and I’m getting the feeling some Terminator shit’s about to go down.”

 _Gun. Away_ , repeats with more frequency. He blocks the frequency wave with ease, used to Tony’s inane requests, built up an obstinate immunity to the way it pressurises his brain. It’s like being underwater. His thoughts start to physically weigh on him, and the only clear echo is Tony's silent voice.

Tony repeats himself one last time, followed by a crisp croak. With a flick of his webbed appendages, the gun is pulled out of America's grip by an immeasurable force, thrown out the room, skidding to a halt on his rug. “Tony,” he seethes warningly. No matter, he’ll simply resort to his fists. America brings his hands up and takes a step forward. Let's see if the copycat had even an inch of his bull-headed strength –

Easily Tony repeats the motion, this time in a downwards arc. _Shit._ America bites down and prepares for the blow, lifted up as though weightless in air, the rush quite literally knocking him off his feet. The surge of gravity overtakes him all at once, and he tumbles down like a rock in mid-air.

The little grey alien's blows have always been different. For one thing, they hurt like hell; more than an average fall of that height should. Alien shit, man.

Groaning, America rights himself upwards, leaning on the wall for support. His axis feels terribly skewed right now.

In the moments of his haze, Tony leaves his side to converse with the stranger. The hilarious thing about Tony is that for all his technological advancements and superior cognitive development, he cannot speak to two people at once. America's never really thought much about it. It seemed rude at the time, what with the uproar of the Roswell Incident and finally having proof that aliens did exist, _'See, John! The world's really just a tiny marble in a jar collection. There's absolutely no way we're alone in the universe!'_ A couple of years passed by and he never really found any reason to question him as to why.

But now he’s been relegated to the sides, an outsider eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Is… Is he okay?”

America brings a hand to the bridge of his nose, pinching down. He isn’t afraid of a bloody nose, but his suit is. It's dry-cleaning only.

“The Northern Light. I was following the Northern Light just like he said!”

A dark droplet coats his thumb.

“I don't see why you can't believe me. I shouldn't be on Gaia, like, at all.”

He swipes his nose, blood be damned, and propels forward. He catches the stranger by the neck and lifts him up. “Talk. Now.”

The doppelganger scrunches his face, one eye increasingly shrinking. His face is a muddled expression of confusion. “I didn't know Gaians could speak our language.” America pinches lightly on his Adam's apple, feels him struggle to gulp. “Okay! Okay okay! J-just let me go, man.”

America loosens his hold by a fraction. America 2.0 takes an exaggerated huff of air, coughing for good measures. America's never been more glad to wear gloves with the way he _spits_ everywhere. “My name's Alfred. Friends call me Al. Sometimes Alfie, I guess.”

Gingerly he places his own hands over America's and attempts to wring them loose, struggling in the process. America has no troubles maintaining his grip; Alfred's weaker than an average human. “You're going to have to do better than a name, Alfred.”

“Yeah, well, I would if I could. I'm kind of, uhh, not from around here. But you can see that, I'm sure. So even if I told you everything I know it wouldn't add up to much.” He kicks America in the shin with his… were those _heels?_ “So if you could just let me go that would be wonderful.” He stops to catch his breath. “Mother was right. I should never have skipped exercising. You're so _strong_.”

“And you're human,” America quips.

Alfred gives him an odd look. “Well _duh_.” His mouth hangs open. “But you're not,” he says slowly.

Quickly, Alfred's face brightens. America recognises the looks easily, it's the same one he gets when he's finally found the answer to a precarious puzzle. “No wonder I couldn't sense any mana. It's because you don't have any!”

“Mana?” America says incredulously. “Like, magic?  
  
“No, no, no; not magic. Well, not in my world. Magic there's a whole different category of its own. I'm talking magecraft. Sorcery. It all makes sense now. The reason why we look alike,” he motions between them, “is because I'm not just on Gaia – I'm on a whole different plane of reality. I'm you but from another world!” 

America blinks, Alfred's terms flying over his head. Mana. Northern Light. Gaia. Absolutely nothing connected to each other. “So what, you're an alien.”

Alfred brings his hands up to form an X. “I just said I was human.”

“That makes absolutely no sense.”

“It makes absolutely perfect sense if you just thought about it for a second!”

They square off against each other, neither backing down.

Tony spares them a glance, hands busy holding America’s package for England –- “No, Tony, no, you can’t have that box,” he fumed. He returns to Alfred, back to their battle of wills, but he doesn’t seem inclined to look at America, instead staring at his hands with the most wasted expression America’s seen. It’s unnerving, because they look exactly the same.

“What…the hell.” Alfred's voice is chocked and heavy with emotion. He brings his hands up closer to his face, earnestly trying to find _something_. He looks at America sharply. “What did you do,” he seethes. Alfred grabs at America's hand, pushing and pulling in a bid for freedom. “What did you to my ether?”

Tightening his grip, America lifts him even higher. Alfred kicks at the air, his hands clawing at his captor in desperation. “What did you do to me!"

“Can't you say anything that even remotely makes sense?” America spits. He shakes him, but it's starting to get terribly difficult with the way Alfred was trying to coil his own hands around America's neck. “Fucking hell, I'll let you go if you tell me why you're here, and why you look exactly like me, because I'm pretty sure I'd know if Angela from Logistics got knocked up and spawned a little demon.”

“My mother's name was Matilda!”

“Doesn't answer why _you look exactly like me_.”

Tony shuffles to the door, his footsteps heavier with the weight of the typewriter, and he can disassemble America’s microwave, hair-dryer, toaster, oven, hell, even his car, but definitely not _that_. He hears the clatter of the ventilation cage being forced open, and America wants answers but he needs the typewriter more. He lets go of Alfred like he’s hot iron and dashes for Tony, nearly slipping on the waxed wooden floors in his sprint.

By the time he’s reached the hallway, he sees the end of Tony’s leg and comes so close to grabbing it and pulling him out. “Tony,” he screams, watching the alien squirm inside, “Tony, give that back now!” The more he shouts, the quicker Tony wiggles away.

Goddammit. _Goddammit_.

Of all the times, of all the _things_. America’s done a lot of wrong in his life, things that creep around the edges of his dream and pounce, scaring him into the world of the living and a pool of sweat. But, the worse things are always the ones he vividly recalls in the middle of everyday actions. He’s gone so far; so, so far into his life, coasting along because that’s what America does best, America will go on. The land of dreams.

Once upon a time, he had his dreams, gripped it with greedy hands, paranoid that it would slip away, keeping it closer and closer to his heart until, ultimately, it fused with his own, and when what he knew to be fleeting edged away, it took his heart with it.

He breathes out, heavy, and when he breathes in, it’s like sulfur.

America sniffs, swiping at his eyes hastily. He will not cry, never has, not since 9/11, and not ever. He’s made from tougher stuff than this. Steel in his blood, iron in his spine.

What he does do, is huddle next to the open ventilation, his knees to his chest. Another clatter rings from his room, and it sounded suspiciously like his lamp's been tossed over.

His throat's parched. He needs a drink just to get hammered. If he'd been any younger, it'd be whiskey and a shot of cocaine in the backdoor of an armed warehouse.

Alfred emerges from his bedroom, disheveled and carrying a weakness America's seen reflected off the mirror when he's drunk himself silly, unable to discern the day or the date or the time. He walked with a hunched posture, his eyes straying, swallowing the items littered in America's apartment with a mix of rapt wonderment and blatant fear.

But America's always been good at spotting the cracks in people, especially himself.

America's looking at a defeated man on the edge of his mental stability. So a normal Monday, then, his mind proffered sullenly.

They share a look and it's so fucking hilarious, because right now there's two Americas looking at each other, both broken and crying in their own way. America expects him to say something like, “Is this world begone of magic?” in Morgan Freeman's dulcet tones.

Surprisingly, what he says instead is, “Of all the words, I never thought I'd get basted into Gaia.” He approaches America with a straight back and cool eyes.

“Of all the worlds,” Alfred repeats, heavy desperation lacing his timbre, “I would find myself in Gaia. Great, just great. Positively the best thing that's happened all day. Turn left at the North Star, Alfred, he said. You'll find what you seek in the depths of the void, he said. Well, here I am now! No magic, no friends, and I can't make a rat's ass of whatever anything here is.” He slides down a safe distance across from America, knees visibly shaking. “So I guess that's it then.” He exhales loudly. “I'm lost in the fourth dimension, and no one knows where, or why. For all I know, time's flowing differently there. A minute here could be a decade back home. Or maybe a decade here's just a minute there.” His hands go lax, “I'm screwed either way.”

America doesn't want him here. He'd prefer Alfred follow Tony into the air-duct, taking with him his slew of problems. But most of all, what he wants, is for things to go his way just once. “Who are you,” he finally asks, though it's robotic.

“I’m, well, I’m from somewhere far away. Tony told me about this place. Well, he gave a summary.” He sends a smile America’s way, strained, and looking every bit like it would fall off. Even though they look exactly the same, Alfred retained a youthfulness America lost decades ago. “He called it Terra,” he says, wistfully.

Earth? “So, what, you’re an alien as well?” America snorts.

Alfred frowns. “Like I said, I'm not. I'm a dimension hopper. Hard to believe, isn't it.”

America shakes his head. “Well, Tony’s here.” He says Tony bitterly, even though he knows better. Tony wasn't human. He wasn't under any moral obligation to follow Terran rules. What an average person would consider the law, Tony would regard as a suggestion.

“Definitely human. I bleed red, if that answer’s anything.” Alfred looks at him, and it’s the strangest feeling, to see your own face stare back at you. Red marks were already starting to dust over his neck. Funny how they're sitting here, talking, when moments ago he had been close to being as blue as his trench coat. Depression brings people together, after all. “My name’s Alfred F. Jones, King of Spades. Ruler of the Spade Dominion.” He says it so casually, as though he’s talking about the weather, that America nearly dismisses it.

Alfred takes a pocket-watch out, flips it open, and a hum of blue light prevails through. It’s absolutely beautiful, mesmerising America. “My royal insignia,” he says slowly. Its shaped in the symbol of a Spade.

It’s ridiculous, borderline insanity. But America’s gone through a lot today. He’s been bullied, shoved around in a car, baited and railed in a meeting, forced to take sides and defend his own. He’s got an alien in his air duct – a reactive microwave somewhere with him – tinkering away at his hoarded electronics. He has a doppelganger from another world, royalty no less, sitting down next to him as the only means of comfort. He’s talked to _England_ , and, surprisingly, its the last one getting to him the most.

America smiles. He is, if anything, a trained military man. Dry those tears, soldier, he recalls. A distant memory filled with toy soldiers and red, red, red. He does what he knows best. He lets rationality dictate his decisions.

Alfred doesn't even have time to yelp when America grabs his hand and flips him over, kicking the pocket-watch a good few metres away. “Bullshit,” he bristles. King of Spades? He was nowhere near an answer than he was a good few minutes from strangling Alfred. “Alfred Jones, you’re hereby under arrest for breaking and entering.”

Alfred grumbles, wriggling underneath him. Yeah, he’s no alien, just a regular human. He ignores his flabbergasted screeching, “This isn’t any way to treat a King!” and, with a deft punch to the side of his head, knocks his assailant into a pleasant dream.

**Author's Note:**

> Two Americas. No regrets, baby.


End file.
